by Carl Hubrick
“Yes, Lord Southern,” the major replied. “I think it would be quite possible.
“As you know, the Commonwealth constitution allows it a basic right for a citizen to possess arms. However, the Commonwealth Arms’ Act of 2088, while still allowing the right to hold arms, introduced stricter control over all types of weapons, even including so-called collectors’ pieces, such as projectile weapons and the like.
“The act states that the weapon must be produced for inspection and relicensing every twelve months, and that if there have been any violations of the Arms’ Act, even the most minor, the citizen’s constitutional entitlement can be suspended or even revoked.
“The point here, is that most royal garrisons would have a fairly comprehensive record of all the weapons in their district and their whereabouts. All Ferdinand had to do therefore was to acquire copies of these lists. He may even have arranged this well before the attacks. He certainly seems to have had an efficient spy network quite capable of such a task.”
The major pulled his feet up and clasped his arms around his knees. He legs had become cramped sitting cross-legged on the cold brick floor.
“Ferdinand is a thorough and clever strategist, this much he has already shown over the past few days. I believe we can assume he would have considered the possibility of counter attacks and planned accordingly. I therefore believe that Lady Caroline’s conclusions are most probably correct.”
“And does this mean what I think it means, Rupert?” Lord Southern asked quietly.
The major nodded. “Yes, Lord Southern, I’m afraid it does. Ferdinand can control his captive planets with the minimum of manpower. He has weapons, the people do not. We cannot expect our citizens to attack armed troopers with their bare hands.”
“I see,” Lord Southern muttered, a frown grooving his brow. He sighed. “Then it would seem we must dismiss the notion of a counter attack and think of some other means to help our queen. Have you any ideas then, Major, that might help our queen to defend herself and the Commonwealth against Ferdinand’s numbers advantage?”
The major pondered the question for a moment, then shook his head.
The old man’s gaze roved the group. “Has anyone?” he asked.
There was no answer from the circle.
The group of prisoners nearest the circle ceased their shield of babble and strained to listen, their expressions grim.
Lord Southern’s hopeful look lingered, focusing every so often on this or that member of the assembly. His questing blue eyes rested on Lars for a second and then moved on.
Around him, Lars felt a leaden air descend upon the circle. Where the meeting had begun in hope, it was now ending in despair.
“Is it check-mate then?” Lord Southern was speaking again. His voice sounded drained. “Is our sweet queen to be crushed by the savagery of Ferdinand’s merciless knights?”
The gathering kept its silence.
“Have we all given up so easily and begun our tears before the game is over?” Once more, his blue gaze navigated the circle, pausing at each face seeking the owner’s eyes, advancing one last challenge for the queen’s cause. Lars was astonished to see the old man’s cheeks were wet with tears.
Beside him, Lars heard Caroline sigh deeply, sensed the pain she felt for saying what she knew had to be said.
“Is there nothing then?” The old man tried again. He waited. He wiped at his tears absentmindedly.
The circle did not answer.
He shrugged resignedly. “Then so be it!” he said. “There is nothing left for me but to declare this meeting closed and hope…”
“Lord Southern?” Lars was surprised how calm and clear his own voice sounded.
“Yes, young man.” The reply came briskly.
“Could we keep the meeting open a little longer?” Lars heard a quick intake of breath from several around him. “I don’t want to raise any false hopes, but if I could have a moment or two to talk to Major Waterman and Sir Henry, I…”
“Young man,” the old man interjected, his craggy face breaking into a rapturous grin. “Take all the time you need. None of us is in a hurry to go anywhere.”
A buzz of hope burst in the assembly and gusted through the cage. If the Megran guards noticed, they gave no response.
“Right Lars!” Henry Tudor was grinning. “Now, what have you got in mind?”
“Well sir, it’s about the counter-attack on each planet; perhaps there is way – a weapon Ferdinand hasn’t thought of…”
* * *
“Meredith pistols, Bess rifles, their range, their power, is that all you can talk about?”
Lieutenant Cheryl York shot to her feet, nearly knocking the small table for two over. Then, just as suddenly, she sat down again.
The few couples in the small café glanced up at her outburst, noted the attractive flaxen haired young woman in the queen’s uniform, observed her red-rimmed blue eyes; noted, too, the good-looking, dark haired young man in civilian garments with her. They then cast knowing glances and grins at each other. In fact, of course, they had no real understanding of what was happening.
A few continued to stare longer, but their curious eyes dropped away when no further flare-ups erupted. However, this did not stop them from extrapolating further and drawing their own vapid conclusions.
“Cheryl, please!” Johan De Vries, captain in the queen’s service, spread his hands in supplication. “Please, I’m sorry. You were so quiet I just couldn’t think of anything else to talk about. Light-bolt weapons are all I know about. That’s my profession.”
Cheryl York stared stiffly at him. Her blue eyes were brimming, but she held back the tears. She dropped her eyes and sniffed quietly.
“No, I’m sorry,” she muttered at last. She looked up at him and forced a faint smile. “I know you wanted to talk about other things, but I wouldn’t let you. Oh, Johnny, you’ve tried so hard to make this evening pleasant for me, while all I’ve done is try to spoil it.”
The tears did overflow then, two shiny lines down her pasty cheeks. She wiped at them with a tissue, then gently dabbed at her nose.
She took a breath and her smile blossomed a little. “Look at you, all dressed up in your best civvies, trying to make me happy. Look at me, still in my uniform – moody, bad tempered, ready to cry at the drop of a hat.” She shook her head. “Why do you bother?”
“Because I love you.” the answer came swiftly, earnestly. “And it’s all right, I understand. It’s your father, isn’t it? You’re worried about him. Is he ill or something?”
The young woman shook her head. “I wish that’s all it was,” she murmured. She hesitated briefly and then reached out and touched the young man’s hand. “You are my best friend, Johnny. More than a friend, if I’m honest. I guess if I’m ever going to unburden myself, talk to anyone, it has to be you. And I can’t keep it bottled up any longer.” She gave a deep sigh. “Yes, it is my father. But what do I tell you? What should I say?”
“Shouldn’t you start at the beginning?”
“The beginning?” She shook her head. “No! There’s no point in going into all that. That’s in the past now even if the hurt and the anger are still in the present.”
She pursed her lips and her gaze shifted beyond the young man, though there was only a wall to see. A frown crinkled the clear skin of her brow.
“That deep space call the other day,” the young man prompted. “It was your father, wasn’t it? I take it that you and he don’t exactly get along.”
The young woman gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ha! That’s putting it mildly.”
“But I don’t understand. The call’s over – done with. Why are you still so upset?”
She did not reply straightaway, and he could sense her misgivings. Then her blue eyes locked into his.
“Because I know he’s up to something.” She took a deep breath. Her mind made up. “He asked me to join him on Megran – tried to order me to come. He told me he wanted to help me, furthe
r my career, hinted at something big going on.”
Captain Johnny De Vries shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Is that so bad?”
Cheryl York’s head nod was adamant. “Yes, oh yes! It’s clear to me something bad is about to happen and my father’s a part of it.
“It might sound silly to you, but I know him.” She dabbed again at her nose with the tissue. “Oh, Johnny, I’m so afraid. I don’t know what to do, who to tell – or,” she hesitated, “what to tell them.”
The young man could not help his smile. “Oh, my poor darling,” he said, placing a hand atop hers. “I think you’ve got this thing with your father all out of proportion.
The young woman shook her head vigorously. Johan noted the sheen in the flaxen hair as it quivered and felt a longing to reach out and touch it.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” he began again hastily. “I’m on your side, and I’m quite sure your father is up to something if you say so. But whatever it is, it’s probably nowhere near half as bad as you imagine.”
He assumed a serious face. “The things that happen to us in our childhood can influence us all the days of our lives. I understand that. And if they’re bad, we should not attempt to keep the door closed on them, but talk whatever they are through with a friend, get them into perspective, not let them fester. They will fade in time if we bring them out into the open.
“However, I think, if there are good things, we should attempt to keep those memories forever fresh in our minds, reminisce often, even if just to ourselves. Keep the good things fixed for all time.”
Johan paused, but when Cheryl made no comment, he continued.
“I was talking to Sergeant Fofana the other day. Apparently, he had a hell of a childhood. His parents were dirt poor. He often went hungry. But he’s determined to remember the good times only. Nowadays, he says, he seldom thinks about the bad times. They are just events that happened in the past and they don’t worry him anymore.
“You know, Cheryl, despite the rapid progress of human kind in so many areas, the subject we know least about is ourselves, how our minds work. We’re still not that far ahead of our primate cousins when it comes to emotions – particularly understanding them. We’re like babes emotionally, we....”
Johan stopped midstream, all at once embarrassed by his attempt at philosophising.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I guess that must have sounded pretty pompous.”
The young woman gave a velvety laugh – music to his ears.
“That was quite a speech, Johnny – for you.”
Johan De Vries blushed slightly. “Did it do the trick?” he asked.
Cheryl York’s frown returned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe, perhaps… But thank you for trying. I love you for that…
“Oh, I’m being irrational, I know,” she continued. “But I have such a bad feeling, like our world is going to end.”
Chapter 23
Escape • “Operation Valkyrie”
The assembly of planet heads dispersed after having agreed that Lars’s plan had merit and offered, perhaps, their only hope of rescue and salvation.
Lord Southern, Sir Henry, Major Waterman, Caroline, and Lars sat down hidden from the view of their guards by two hundred now jovial and excited prisoners to work out the details. Some of the other planet heads stood close by in the hope of overhearing how the plan might work.
“Now, all we have to do is get you out of here to explain your idea to the queen,” Lord Southern said.
His hand shot up as Lars started to protest. “No, no, you must go, Lars. It’s your idea after all. And from what I hear you’ve proved yourself a very resourceful and mettlesome young man for the cause already.” He gave a short laugh. “Anyway, you’ll be far more use at Her Majesty’s side than one of these… these old war dogs.”
He waved a hand of bony fingers at a grinning Sir Henry and Rupert Waterman.
Lord Southern took Caroline’s hands in his. “And we’re going to send the lovely young Lady Caroline with you. She will be your credentials once you reach Earth.
“I don’t want you to spend another day in this dreadful place, m’dear,” he said looking deep into Caroline’s eyes and smiling broadly. “And I’m sure your father agrees.”
Sir Henry gave a cheery nod.
Lord Southern looked up at the stone vault above them. He steepled his fingers together as if he were praying, as people had once done in bygone days.
There was an awkward air of silence as they watched him, no one wanting to ask the one question that was uppermost in their minds.
At last, Lord Southern dropped his prayer-like pose and glanced round at the small group of expectant faces.
“You’re all thinking the old man’s suffering from senescence, aren’t you?” he said with a soft laugh. “Or that I’ve gone mad,” he added, his laughter bubbling up so that many of the prisoners in the vicinity turned to see what the joke was.
“I know we can’t just walk out of here, but I do have a card or two up my sleeve yet.” He gave a broad wink. “There’s a joker in every pack, eh Lars? And you can never be sure where he’s going to pop up next.”
He spread his hands. “It’s very simple,” he said. “The Megran guards are efficient, but not clever. They have devised no better security than a head count twice a day.” The old man’s blue eyes sparkled. “And there are far too many of us to know by sight – over two hundred souls. And so Lars, if you and Lady Caroline here were to just say – disappear…” He left the last word hanging.
“But how?” Sir Henry wanted to know.
“And what about the head count you mentioned?” the major queried. “If Ferdinand finds out anyone has escaped it could precipitate his attack upon the queen as well as reprisals upon the hostages. I don’t see how it can work.”
Lord Southern chuckled.
Forgive me, Rupert – Sir Henry, I am deliberately teasing you all. I’m a wicked old man whose heart is light and full of hope again, and I’m playing guessing games like a child.
“But!” he said, waving a finger at them. “Let me assure you, there is a way.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tonight, when our evening meal is delivered, you will meet – Old Seth.
“Hmm! I guess I shouldn’t call him that,” he mused. “He’s quite a bit younger than I. No more than seventy, I should think. Mind you, his hair is as white as mine and…”
He glanced round suddenly at his audience and laughed apologetically.
“Oh dear, I am making rather a long winded story out of it, aren’t I? Please forgive me.” He shook his head. “I’m an old man and I talk too much even at the best of times, but particularly when I’m happy.”
He drew a deep breath. “All right, put simply then, it’s this. The Megran forces are so thin on the ground throughout the Commonwealth at present, engaged in their war of conquest as they are, that there are very few of them left to do the mundane tasks; tasks such as guard duty, not to mention other more menial duties. Therefore, the Megrans have drafted low security convicts for the extra help they need – trusted ones, of course, trusted ones like Old Seth. They bring the prison trusties in to prepare and serve our meals.
“Anyway, to cut a long story short, Old Seth has offered a way for us to get a few of our key people out.”
“But how reliable is he?” The major was frowning. “A great deal hangs in the balance…”
Lord Southern gave an emphatic nod. “Very reliable, I believe. I pride myself on being a good judge of character. He’s loyal to the queen, and what’s more he says there’s a large underground movement ready to help overthrow Ferdinand and his military junta if given half a chance.”
“How does he plan to get us out?” Caroline asked. “I can’t imagine it being easy.”
Lord Southern gave a low chuckle. “Well it’s quite straightforward really, but it would be best if you spoke to Old Seth, himself, he’ll be here soon. He will be able to answer y
our questions better than I can.”
* * *
Lars was standing at the cage bars waiting with the major and Sir Henry when the column of twenty big stainless steel kitchen trolleys rattled into view bearing dozens of steaming pots of food apiece. Two convict attendants were required to push each one, while another helped guide the cumbersome steerage.
The Megran guards opened the cage door, pushing the prisoners back with shouts and curses, their Bess rifles thrusting like batons. The queen’s side replied with mutinous taunts and insults.
Once the trolleys were inside the cage perimeter, the guards retreated hastily, locking the cage door behind them.
The trolleys were trundled into a circle like a defensive wagon train. Most of the trusties were men, but there was a sprinkling of women as well. All were wearing bright orange prison overalls, with Prisoner in bold white letters stencilled back and front.
Lars scanned the newcomers looking for the man called Old Seth, but the milling crowd of prisoners hungry for food quickly surrounded the stainless steel circle obscuring his view. Plastic bowls and spoons, the only utensils allowed, were distributed, and queues quickly formed, the clamour almost deafening.
A voice behind Lars spoke. Lord Southern was there with Caroline beside him.
“Come Lars,” the old man said quietly, his eyes bright with anticipation. “We have an appointment with destiny.”
* * *
Old Seth was busy ladling out prison stew. He looked up as they approached. His small pale blue eyes lit up when he saw Lord Southern.
Lars studied the man they were about to entrust their hopes with, maybe even their lives.
Seth was of average height and rather corpulent. He bulged as if he carried a spare tyre at the waist. The fleshy red of his face was in marked contrast to his mop of white hair. His orange overalls were at least two sizes too small for him, and had caused the zip fly to pop open.